His by Carolyn Faulkner (recommended reading txt) 📕

He watched avidly as her dance became more and more frantic, as the punishing liquid made her insides angrier and angrier.

He made her hold it until he thought she was going to explode, then - not fancying have to clean up any such mess - he tapped her right flank and said but one word. "Release." Like the Southern gentleman that he was, even in times like this, he helped her down off the high table, patting her bottom possessively as she tried to scurry away.

But even then, having been given permission to ease the ache in her tummy, she wasn't free. The panties around her ankles hobbled her, and she had to stumble her way to blessed relief.

Ever mindful of any sort of germs - even though they were they only ones to ever use this equipment - he wiped everything down with antiseptics, then put the smaller accoutrement into a dishwasher he'd had installed in the room he euphemistically referred to as the Library, especially for that purpose. It wasn't the only place in the huge house that there were reminders of the backbone of their relationship. The Library just happened to be the place with the highest concentration of paraphernalia.

Then he shut off the light and wandered into their huge bedroom - knowing she knew to not to so much as stand up from the commode until she'd received permission - drawing the wall of curtains open to reveal the screen doors behind them, the gateway to their huge private balcony as it faced a huge expanse of the Pacific Ocean. He knew how the sea appealed to every one of her senses, how it soothed her wordlessly, and tonight she would need comfort he would not give to her until much, much later.

He puttered around the room, unlocking cabinets and extracting the tools of the trade: a plastic speculum - the metal ones could pinch sensitive flesh without permission - a soft leather flogger that was anything but in his hands, a wooden spoon with a hole in the middle that left the most intriguing pattern of welts. Inspired by that thought, he put his digital camera within easy reach on the bedside table.

He'd taken videos of her, especially when they were first together and everything was so brand new, including all of her responses to his efforts. But as their relationship progressed he'd found himself less and less captivated by that medium and more and more riveted by the reality of it all. Even when he was being more avid about video documentation of their exploits, they never ended up being particularly prurient. He preferred almost artful shots of her reactions much more than the money shots.

And it had puzzled him to no end.

It wasn't like he was a chaste beginner himself. More like a jaded old timer.

He had always had money - thanks to his grandfather - had always been privileged, and had always pretty much done as he'd damned well pleased. Especially when it came to women. It seemed that no one could - or would - turn him down, no matter what outrageous demand he made of them.

But he knew what motivated each and every one of the women he took into the Library, and then, usually, eventually, into a bed - although not his. Before Raina, he'd never allowed any of his little playmates into his inner sanctum. He'd used one of the other master suites, keeping it looking relatively lived in so that none of them guessed that they weren't in the bedroom he slept in.

They wanted his money. He'd never, ever, unless there was another Depression, have to read a price tag. Neither would his wife, not that there was ever going to be another one. He'd married early and for love, fool that he was. He'd never again let himself be lead around by his dick.

Instead, he did the leading, and he kept his emotions - such as they were now - very carefully under wraps. Frankly, despite the fact that he had a raging libido, he very rarely indulged himself. It was too dangerous to do so with his... predilections. He didn't want to see himself in the headlines of the Enquirer - "Billionaire Playboy Prefers Whips and Chains".

A shudder ran through him at the mere thought. He may have had all the privileges of wealth, but he wasn't one of those trust fund babies who partied, fucked, and slept and contributed little else to the world around him. He hadn't rested on his grandfather's monied laurels - he'd created his own highly successful companies and was a force - a jaded, cynical force, but a force nonetheless - to be reckoned within the business world. He had a reputation as a ruthless man who tended towards hostile takeovers of companies that no one knew were teetering on the brink of insolvency.

But Raina had caught his eye from the very beginning.

Raina Boardman was a self made woman - his exact opposite. She wasn't born with anything in her mouth, much less a silver spoon, but she'd managed to pull herself up by her bootstraps. She was the CEO of a corporation called Infinity that was solidly established as a leader in the cosmetics industry. She was a Type A of the highest order, first one in and last one out, every single day.

They'd been invited to the same charity benefit, and he had seen her walk in - head high, looking drop dead gorgeous and completely comfortable without an escort, male, female or otherwise. She didn't need anyone or anything, and her carriage and attitude fairly screamed it.

He finagled an introduction, not wanting to confront her head on. He didn't know what it was, but something in him told him to be a more subtle in his approach to her than he might be.

And he was right.

When their small talk petered out, and a group of people who seemed to know her well arrived,